


Four

by myrhymesarepurer



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-30 08:22:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15092903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrhymesarepurer/pseuds/myrhymesarepurer
Summary: It wasn’t going to be an issue, managing the aftermath. Well, that would have been true if Amestris’ finest pair of officers had approached the next day, the aftermath, with a cohesive plan of attack rather than two diametrically opposed coping mechanisms.I t wouldn’t have been an issueif they didn’t have a wedding to go to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a/n Hey there, I’m back. You all have gotten so tall. I’m so proud.  
> Here’s this. I’ll be posting this fic over the next two weeks. Oh, I also figured out _italics_.

It wasn’t going to be an issue  
managing the aftermath.

Or.

It wasn’t going to be that  _grave_ of an issue.

Or.

It wasn’t going to be that grave of an issue  _theoretically._  
But, General Mustang and his Captain had always been in a bit of denial.

A brief recap of sorts for convenience:

Shortly after being forced to share a room with her superior due to a supposed clerical error,  
Riza Hawkeye exhibited to her roommate a most enticing weakness via a most unfortunately timed dream  
of less than pure nature.

This weakness: Roy Mustang himself.

It was simply just her luck, but not solely her fault to be fair. Brigadier General Roy Mustang simply  
did not have the body one would expect of a typical pencil pusher. He went shirtless that night as she, her suitcase,  
of course, pajamaless by the very cruelty of the universe, resorted to wearing the General’s shirt once so generously offered.

Needless to say, there was a critical lack of clothing.   
They had set themselves up for failure.   
It was pathetic. It was unfair.    
  
It was the Wedding.

Edward Elric was to marry Winry Rockbell the following afternoon and, as is custom, threw one of those silly little shindings  
that seemed to universally drive its attendees up the wall, in one way or another, instilling childish fantasies  
often with a heavy helping of doubt.   


So, given,   
their defenses had been wearing thin all week, via the stag parties and wedding planning, and the fact that prying into another’s very privatelove life was practically a past time at these things, whether  _determinedly_  nonexistent or otherwise.   
   
But, Roy Mustang would say that he, personally,  _officially_  sort of lost it once she started dreaming that wicked dream, curling her toes and making those  _sounds_. The two, understandably, struggled with the management of their proximity for the rest of the evening, reluctantly attempting to balance between the  _preferred_ , the  _appropriate_  and the space _required_  to avoid becoming tangled together in the sheets of one of two beds available to them.  

Oh, but they were so good at denial, and  _so_ , evidently,  _bad_  
at such romantic circumstances, So, they stuck with that mantra.

It  _isn’t_ going to be an issue. 

And, of course, they  _would_ have been correct.

They would have been correct if it was  _simply_  the lust that reared its ugly head in the little Owl Inn that night.  
They would have been correct if Amestris’ finest pair of officers had approached the next day, the aftermath, with a cohesive plan  
of attack rather than two diametrically opposed coping mechanisms.

It wouldn’t have been an issue  
if they didn’t have a wedding to go to.

Yet, all of the above was true.

Therefore, the day following,   
Riza would choose to fight the inevitable.   
Roy would choose to flee the reality.   
  
Neither would  _choose_  to fail but, by end of the night,   
would certainly end up back in Room Four

together.  

Now, into the thick of it.

Captain Hawkeye left Room Three the morning after as quickly as she could, leaving as  _Captain Hawkeye_    
and only as  _Captain Hawkeye._  Such was her strategy; she would fight for the grace of forgetting the way  
her superior had looked at her the night before, the way he studied the feel of her skin and kissed her like all they had was time.

Riza shut down the foolish heart that fluttered, gathered her hair and dashed out the door. She would forget that  
all of this had even come to pass. She would fight to keep fighting for tomorrow, for Amestris, for the General.

So, six o’clock struck and she was out of there.

Roy would want to  _talk_.

She just knew he would want to reason and adapt and  _remember_ and, of course, she was right on the money.  
Roy hid under the covers, listening to her pace, listening to her collect the courage to waltz down to the innkeeper’s room  
in only Roy’s nightshirt and retrieve a new key to Room Four.   
  
For, of course, last night the universe had decided to not only curse them with the release of ten years worth of sexual tension to no  _actual_ satisfying end, but  _also_ lock them out of the room they were supposed to share.  
The room that at least had two separate twin beds.

So they shared this room, Room Three, Ling and Lan Fan’s cargo room. They slept on far separate sides of the queen sized matress,  
with an appropriate pillow barrier, surrounded by the poster image for Heavy Packers Anonymous.  
   
Even for an Emperor, this was far too much luggage.

Still, it was all they had after begging Lan Fan for the key. They shared this room, feigned sleep together, and now scattered  
to opposite sides of the earth. Or that’s what it was certainly going to feel like. Roy supposed he would be lucky if he talked to her ever again   
at any point   
ever.

Sure, the problem was resolved late last night in some respects, but the peace and acceptance that settled over the room  
was just a crudely made mask. The sun rose, cut through the curtains and rudely woke them to the fact that they had said and done  
all these incredibly significant things without a clue as to how to deal with it.   
  
Granted,   
  
childhood tragedy, civil war, an endless quest toward questionable redemption,   
all of these could understandably hinder a person, even one of great intelligence and determination, from correctly developing  
the skills to navigate the kind of relationship more or less classified as ‘ _soulmate_ ’.   
  
So, sure, it was understandable that they were more than a small bit less than prepared as they ventured forward into a world in which  
the once  _unspoken_ was suddenly  _spoken_ , and demanding to be confronted.

This, of course, did not make it any less unbearable.  
   
Roy groaned into his pillow. Riza slipped into Room Four, dressed to the nines in record time, called a car to the hotel, tapped her foot,  
watched the clock, tidied up the Rockbell kitchen and then showed up at Winry’s door at seven on the dot with coffee  
and a fresh apple fritter for the bride.   
  
Needless to say, there was very little time   
allocated for the Captain to  _think._

T’was the very point.

Riza assumed Winry wasn’t sleeping anyway.   
  
Weddings threw everyone for a good, discombobulating loop and she would imagine it was the bride who would spend the most time  
tossing and turning. Surely enough, Winry had been pacing around in her robe waiting for her bridesmaids.  
  
_Perhaps seven was too early_ , she thought.   
  
It was.

But, Winry would never understand how grateful Riza was for her abnormally early call time, considering her ceremony was in the  _late_  afternoon. No one else had arrived, of course, nor would they for another hour  
after such a late night of celebrating.    
  
Still, Winry was grateful for her friend, her maid of honor,   
who perhaps was a little too efficient.

Riza was fully dressed and wedding ready,   
brought breakfast,   
and wasted no time in plopping Winry down on a chair  
to begin brushing through and pinning up her long blonde locks   
with no other word but,   
  
“Rise and shine.” 

Thankfully for the bride, Riza still stood determined not to be left alone with her thoughts.  
She would fight. She would forget, She would distract herself and make small talk.   


“How did you sleep, Winry?”   
“I didn’t sleep,” she scoffed, “at all.”   
“Me neither,” Riza answered mindlessly, automatically.   


She swallowed down all the reasons why she  _hadn’t_  slept and all the reasons why she had  
subconsciously brought up the one topic she wanted to avoid.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Winry hummed, “The inn looked quite comfortable.”  
  
Riza nodded her head, “Yes, well, it was only that I made a mistake   
and booked one room for both the General and-“

Riza’s entire being paused,   
going  _oh so_  still.   


For, she couldn’t say how she knew Winry was smirking just so,   
but when her focus flicked up to meet those big blue eyes in the mirror,   
there was far too much mischief in them for so early in the morning.

Riza resumed her work, softly,   
“You heard from Ling.”

Riza could see perfectly in her mind’s eye her undoing all at once:   
She and her commanding officer pressed up against the inside of the door to Room Three, hiding and whispering and waiting  
to see if the Xingese Emperor or his beloved body guard had in fact heard their very personal, very _intimate_  fiasco in the hallway.  
Not only did she slip and fall and allow such a fiasco to take place,

but they had certainly gotten caught.

However, Winry, Riza realized quickly after,   
was no mere observer.   
  
There was no ‘he said she said’ before the rooster crowed.    
Ling and Lan Fan were still at the inn.  


Winry was no secondary witness,   
but the instigator of the whole evening.   


“No, I-. Well,” Winry stumbled,   
  
“I sort of changed the reservation a month ago-.”

Riza so quickly crumbled.

“It cruel, Winry.” Riza suddenly cut, softly but not without venom.   
Once hearing herself, the Captain reeled back and sighed,

“It’s cruel what you’re orchestrating.”   
  
  
Riza fought.   
  
  
She fought off the fact that this all could have been avoided,   
this guilt, this distater, and this unwelcome longing for it to continue.

She could suddenly fail her General in a whole new way.

Riza’s head reeled. She closed her eyes, clutched the bridge of her nose,   
and listened while Winry then began to beg for forgiveness.

“Oh, Miss Riza. I am  _so sorry._  I didn’t think it would be a problem. They needed a room for cargo and, plus,  
you two are so close. I know you’re not allowed on the job to- Well, I thought I could get you some time alone together and maybe then-”  


Riza gave a heavy huff, raised her hand to stop her,   
to reassure her gently, “You needed an outlet.” 

Winry blinked,   
  
not realizing how true that had been until this very moment. Normally, she knew she wouldn’t have made such a move,  
insinuating something that she knew Riza had always so fervently resisted.  

But, it was the Wedding.   
  
The planning was detailed and stressful and expensive and omnipresent in her life for months. She wanted to skip all the filler  
and cut to her life with Ed. That, of course, was impossible. There was no shortcut.

But, there  _was_ the opportunity for a most effective distraction. Their two bedroom reservation  
was just  _begging_  to be changed. Winry could kill two birds with one stone:   
  
Ling needed room for his luggage   
and Riza needed a husband.

Bada-bing.   
Bada-boom.  

So, Winry did in fact, in this moment, find herself guilty of subconsciously latching onto this: Riza Hawkeye’s own happily ever after,  
thrown in and disguised as just a part of the wedding festivities.

An  _outlet_ , Riza had summed up. By the grimace on her face,  
Winry’s little outlet appeared to have turned sour.  
  _Cruel,_  she had bit.

She spoiled her friend’s stay in Resembool and maybe even her chances with the man  
Winry had  _a lot_  of money on Riza marrying.   
  
So, if anything, it was a very poor move financially.

Winry swallowed the bit of shame and watched her toes, feeling enough foolishness for Riza to quickly intervene  
her inner scolding. Riza saw those eyes lose their sparkle and knew she only said it out of bitterness.

She was twenty-nine.

Twenty-nine and caught with such a strange piece of herself so weak, so foolish,  
and ever so slightly  _jealous_  of Winry Rockbell and her silly little party,  
not so much the dress, or the rings, or the cake, but the _forever._

She could suddenly fail her General in a whole new way.   
Riza fought. Riza snuffed that piece before she could think.

“It was-  It wasn’t an issue, Winry,” she said as blue eyes looked up to a feigned smile in the mirror.  
She could, in some frame of mind, consider Winry’s scheme as a merciful gift.

But, that morning,   
Riza chose to fight, to forget.

“But, you’re clearly upset, “ Winry bit her lip, stuck between guilt and hopefulness when she asked,  
  
“Did something actually  _happen_?”

Riza took pause with her hands on the young bride’s shoulders.   
_No_ , she decided. She would forget. She would fight.   
  
Her eyebrows perked, and she huffed while the young,  
caring trickster waited on the edge of her seat,

“You read far too many romance novels, Winry.”   
  
The Captain smirked just so, holding no grudge.   
Winry was put at ease, huffing out a laugh

“Hey, I’ve got to get my fix somewhere.” she shrugged, “Ed doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body.  
So, I have to  _read_  about the grand proposals and the confessions of love, kisses in the rain, all that.”

“How quaint,” Riza said through the hairpins she held in her mouth, avoiding how appealing any of those fantasies  
most suddenly might be. Such worlds were never meant for her, Riza Hawkeye, so why would she ever want to exist in one?

Even just for one more day.  
Riza fought.

Winry played with a free strand of hair as she hummed,   
“Of course, Edward’s idea of a proposal was referencing equivalent exchange.”

“Very fitting,” Riza watched her own smile be out shined when Winry grinned oh so fondly as she admit to the mirror,  
 “He’s a moron…”   
  
Winry pondered the fact.

“Everyone deserves their own moron, I think. You included.” Winry added practically  
watching the words fall  
onto Riza’s tongue as she began a default quip,   


“I-“  _already have one,_ Riza just so nearly finished.  
  
But, she thankfully caught herself and tsk-ed off Winry’s silly trickery, those blue eyes giving way to a touch  
of revealing disappointment. Winry clearly couldn’t help it.   
  
She needed an outlet.   
Riza dutifully steered her back on track.  

“Today is about you and Edward,” She said steadily, pining off another long blonde lock,  
“Leave my relationship with the General out of it.”

Winry, like an addict, turned sharply to her, “ _Relationship_?”   
Riza grabbed her shoulders and turned her right back.    
  
  
“ _Fine,_ ” Winry whined, sighed and looked up, straight into the mirror.  
She frowned at her reflection, most reluctantly, most  _finally_ , peering past the surface,  
and saw staring right back at her  
her deepest,   
greatest

fear.   
  
It was a moment of heavy silence  
before Winry finally let the words free.   
  
“What if I’m not ready?”   


Riza knew every woman,   
every man,   
in every country,   
in every era of time   
must have asked themselves the very same question on the morning of their wedding.  
And, just as every maid of honor, every bridesmaid, Riza reassured,  
  
“You’re ready,”   
  
and just as every bride might,   
Winry didn’t seem to believe it.

So, for a moment they sat there. Winry chewed on her lip and watched  
Riza twist her hair into a pretty bun, then she most unexpectedly asked,

“Do you know why I picked you as my maid-of-honor?”

  
“I’m punctual?” Riza quipped dryly.   
It was a reasonable point, to be sure.

Winry smiled as much as she could, forcing her mind to finally focus on herself,   
on this day, on the future, on the hypotheticals, the probabilities, the possibilities.   
  
She nodded softly,   
“We’ve grown really close and-“

Riza watched Winry hesitate,   
still Winry fought.

“You are everything I want to be.”

Riza’s hands stopped. Her heart stopped.   
Winry clutched the seat of her chair and explained meekly.

“During the Promised Day,” Winry murmured, “During that whole time, I was the hostage.  
I couldn’t do anything to help. I was paralyzed with this  _fear_  and-  
  
“I was so surprised at how useless I could be.”   


Winry looked to a Riza frozen stiff.   


“But you. You are strong and fearless, and unstoppable.   
You make your dreams happen despite-“

Winry hesitated once more.   
Winry said that word

_fear._

Winry said the word and, for Riza, the mess scattered on the floor of Room Three, those pieces of herself  
that she hadn’t bothered to collect before she left, all of those pieces put themselves back together.

She left that morning to fight and forget.

She left and all she knew was the feeling in the bottom of her gut   
and in the pit of her throat, impossibly heavy and terribly dense.

Winry said the word  _fear_ ,   
and Riza realized she was afraid.

She was so afraid.   
  
Yet, this beautiful sweet-hearted young bride   
idolized her and called her  _fearless._    
  
Winry did not know  _all_  of the gruesome details of Riza’s demons. But, she knew enough.  
She knew enough and still she called Riza fearless and ardently hoped she would fall in love, put on a white dress  
and find someone to have and to hold her in bad and awful, terrible and worse, and all the chance times she could allow herself to be happy.

The fact that Riza Hawkeye rediscovered a part of herself that could actually  _long_    
for such a future, it terrified her. She was no a hero. She was a hostage.

She was helpless   
and useless   
and  _scared_.

For, she would fail her General in a whole new way,   
_wishing_ for the very thing that would bring him down.

“It’s silly,” Winry huffed finally, “But what if it happens again, Riza.   
That uselessness and that...fear.”  

Riza’s jaw went slack as her mind raced fruitlessly, and she panicked. Riza panicked  
and looked to anchor herself in Winry’s big blue eyes.

She was twenty-nine and petrified,   
and had nothing to say   
to this young budding bride,   
nothing but, “I am not fearless, Winry.”   
  
Winry’s face dropped, disappointment, hope fading.   
She was looking for answers, encouragement.

Riza had none. Riza was lost.   
Riza would fail her General in a whole new way.  

“I was a hostage too, Winry, and I am anything but fearless,” she said straight,  
leaving no room for a debate. Winry nodded as she knew.   
  
Winry knew it was not real, the tireless courage she wished for.   
  
Riza swallowed the lump in her throat, pinning off the blonde bun now delicately sculpted into Winry’s hair.  
The Captain knew she could only offer what she had to tell herself.   
  
Riza circled around to kneel in front of Winry’s chair, fingers brushing up to fashion the bride’s bangs,  
“However, fear is a very good thing to possess, you know.”

She smoothed the blonde strands that hung loose to frame Winry’s face then matched those anxious blue eyes  
with a pair of steady browns.   
“It means you have something to lose.”

“So, you fight harder,” Winry nodded softly.   
Riza smiled warmly, “Yes, precisely.”  

“But, don’t be mistaken, Winry,” Riza reached up, held her shoulders surely, and told her the magnificent difference  
between the two of them, “You will  _never_  be useless. You and Edward  _fought_  for this.  
I cannot tell you what your future holds, but you fought for  _this_ , for  _life_ , and  _love_.

“You two  _must_  enjoy it now.”   
  
Winry then gave a smile, so confident   
and relieved and  _fearless_

it could not help but to be contagious.  

Winry Rockbell and Riza Hawkeye, their similarities, their common battle   
with this fear unmatched; their stories were never to end in the same way.  

But, such a smile so confident,   
and relived and fearless,   
and  _ready._  
  
Riza breathed in and knew she would not yield in her fight for the future. She would forgo her found longing  
for such fanciful dreams, forget the night before with the heat and the lust and the fluttering of her foolish heart.

She would forget because she must.

Despite fear, she would fight.  
She was ready.

and then he knocked.

  
First, to that smile, Riza gave one of her own, warm and radiant, a rare sighting to be sure.  
Winry giggled from a thought while Riza dropped her sure grip on her shoulders to hold her hands,

“What’s so funny?”

Winry just blinked at Riza, evaluating her dress, her hair, her face, her smile, her  _strength_  
not a piece that wouldn’t drive General Mustang wild. So, Winry cocked her head and grinned,  
“You’d make a beautiful bride, you know.”

“ _Un_ believable,” Riza rolled her eyes, tossing Winry’s hands back into her lap.   
“ _What_?” Winry laughed, “It’s  _true_. Now,” she schemed while Riza stilled,  
hearing footsteps,  “ Are you  _sure_  nothing happened at the-“

then he knocked.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _-sighs at the fact that this took too long to perfect and that my standards are way way too high-_   
>  Well, at least America's not that bad. Happy 4th!

No one was awake.

Or.

No one was  _supposed_  to be awake.

Or.

No one was awake unless they were  _pointedly_  awake avoiding something of an emotional crisis that required  
full consciousness to combat. So, Riza figured as she froze in the wake of the knock on the door,  
if she and Winry, both admittedly in their own kind of distress, were already inside this room,

the greatest probability as to who was on the other side of that door,  
asking to be let in was painfully favored toward the very last person  
Riza Hawkeye wanted to be  _anywhere_  near.

Understandably so, since the last time she looked said person in the eye,  
he was pressing her into walls, grazing her skin all over,  
kissing her soft, rough, and every in-between,  
making her  _moan_  so indecently.

He was the very reason  _she_  was awake, fighting,  
battling the aftermath, something of an emotional crisis.

Riza swallowed the pit in her throat,  
_hating_  that she was honest enough to call it that

On one hand, she was happy they were interrupted.

Winry was dear to her, and had become like a little sister  
over the years of letters and the occasional lunch  
when they found themselves in the same city.

Still, sentimental existentialism was neither  
her strong suit nor her cup of tea.

But.

Roy Mustang was the one interruption Riza would trade for all the mushy,  
gushy maid-of-honor sentimental existentialism in all of Amestris in every era,  
every realm, every universe.

Just, _please_ , god.  
Not the General.

But, he knocked.

Winry, ignorant of Riza's dread,  
smiled as she called, "Who is it?"

"I-"

There was a huff.

"I have a purple tie."

Winry looked to Riza who braced the bridge of her nose and grimaced.  
"Say again, Mr. Mustang?" Winry asked hesitantly,

Purple was a theme in the wedding, a color she picked out.  
It looked lovely on everyone,

and, well, the groomsmen's' ties  _were_  her idea,  
She may have gone a bit overboard on those.

Perhaps they were a bit  _too_  purple.

Roy huffed another heavy sigh, clearly conflicted,  
or nervous, or  _desperate.  
_  
"Is she in there with you, Winry?"

Winry glanced to Riza yet again,  
and for the first time since she'd known the Captain,  
Riza appeared unstable, off-kilter more specifically so,  
she looked like she might  _hurl._

"Yes, she is, but-" Winry struggled.  
"Meet me in the den, Sir," Riza called calmly.

Riza had planned, at all costs, to avoid him, like a flesh eating virus,  
a degree of silent treatment she had not lowered herself to implement  
since she was at most thirteen.

But, it was a snap decision,  
a gut reaction.

It was just a tie. Probably a bow.  
She would just go tie it,

and not give him the satisfaction of extending the interaction longer than practically necessary.  
She just knew Roy would want to  _talk_ , and reason, and adapt, and  _remember_ all of it. Everything.  
This was the opposite of her mission, her objective, her fight.

She would meet him in the den.  
Tie the tie.  
Face him  
and shut down any ideas his hopeful little head would have about continuing their escapade  
for a full twenty-four hours. For his own good, she would shut him down.

For his own good.

Winry jumped to stop her, reach for her.  
Something was wrong.  
Something  _must_ have happened,

_It's cruel, Winry, what you're orchestrating._

The hotel. She was such an idiot, Winry panicked.  
She had to fix this. She reached but Riza shook her off, stood up,  
smoothed out her dress, then gave Winry a resolute nod in the mirror.

In an instant, Captain Hawkeye was invincible,  
most seemingly  _fearless_  once more.

She was ready.  
She would face him.

She was ready.

That is, until he looked at her  
_like that._

Riza faltered.

It was the wedding, she reassured herself.  
That's all it was. It was the wedding.

Everyone was just the slightest bit insane, going about, changing hotel reservations,  
plotting for her very demise, while she spent the better half of last night pushed up against the wall with the General

Weddings drove people mad, sparking obsessions with happily-ever-after's and the like.  
So, Riza, hesitating briefly on the stairs, stepped down to the den, and did her very best to ignore it.

The look  
_like that._

Roy had turned from the little mirror on the wall.  
Once yanking at his tie, he then proceeded to forget  
about everything in full, dropping his jaw, going a bit pale.

It was the wedding,  
It was  _just_  the wedding.

Riza chanted quietly.  
Riza sighed.

Still he looked at her  _like that_. like he might have last night,  
except in a way that was the slightest bit more concerning,  
much more permanent, much more threatening to everything  
she was struggling to fight for.

How inconvenient.

She had seen him in suits before.  
He watched her dawn sundresses all week.

But, now.  
Riza was in  _lilac._

The dress was high backed,  
with a modestly low neckline.

Pink lips, brown lined chestnut eyes.  
She wore pearls in place of silver,  
and her golden blonde hair up, curled and pinned.

He tripped up a bit on the whole _words thing,_  
so, as more often than not, she did the work for him,

"Very handsome, General," Riza nodded formally.  
He swallowed, and sighed back into his charm,

"Lovely, as always, Captain," he said and hoped  
hoped  _ardently_ , she knew he meant it.  
as always.

Captain Hawkeye in uniform. She had grace and poise. She reported for duty and so effortlessly  
reassured their safety, their capability, their future. She was strong and sure, ready and  _lovely_  all at once.

Last night, in his shirt and very little else, Riza left him itching to slam her up  
against the nearest wall - as she honestly seemed to enjoy – making her sigh  
and gasp and moan. His reaction was to be expected.  
Dressed like that she was a dream, sexy,  
and appetizing, and  _lovely_  all at once.

Finally, now, she stood before him and wore lilac and pearls.

He wanted to abandon this silly party and spend his time studying the feel of her skin,  
hover too close to her nose, her lips, down her neck, run his fingers through her hair.

Beautiful,  
divine,  
_lovely._

So, when he told her lovely, as always. He meant in blue and gold,  
t-shirts and lilac. He truly did mean lovely,  _as always._

Roy, however, thought much better of explaining all that, of course,  
and instead huffed, whined and fidgeted with a very untied tie  
knotted sloppily around his neck.

"It's purple."  
"So I heard."

Roy turned back to the mirror, mindlessly pulling at the knot,  
then the ends, then the knot again. It was a bow.

He hated the bows.

"The pipsqueak already mocked me," Roy frowned knowing, of course, he did do his part  
to piss off the shrimp, waking him by showing up at his door in full dress at eight in the morning.

Then, of course, when questioned, Roy coolly accused Fullmetal  
of being lazy on the supposed best day of his life.

Many insults were thrown, and Roy very well knew he was the instigator, but for the runt to  _mock_ him  
about the dumb  _obnoxious_  bow he was forced to wear to be a part of _his_ stupid wedding-  
"Edward is nervous," Riza interrupted his sulking.

She gave her commanding officer a stern warning  
with a simple flick of her tone.

 _No childish complaining_ , she had told him, _no incessant bickering_  with a boy nearly half his age, even though,  
he could not seem to help it this time around for reasons deep seeded, and, therefore, deliberately ignored.

Weddings drove everyone mad.  
Riza cinched a smile despite it all.

"Also, I doubt _pipsqueak_  is a suitable taunt. He's almost taller than you now."  
"I doubt that very much," Roy grumbled pettily.

He pulled and prodded at his stupid bow, scowling shamelessly. Riza's skin itched with ice and fire.  
She fought hard to forget last night and all the years before. She fought hard to stay away, to deprive him of the satisfaction.

But, this was pathetic.  
_Impossible man._

She snatched the bow tie and turned him to her.  
"Perhaps he was mocking your form, Sir, rather than the purple"

She kept the greatest possible distance from the General. Though her commanding officer, of course,  
refused to maintain such a safe perimeter, perhaps subconsciously or very consciously,  
meeting her with a step far closer than necessary.

Roy was inches away.  
Riza was frozen solid.

"You're always much better at these ones," he said, chin tucked,  
watching her fingers work. "That is quite embarrassing for you, Sir."

He grinned, glancing back up. Her eyes, lined in brown,  
pink lips,  _lilac._ He caught his breath and smirked warmly,  
"Perhaps I did this on purpose."

Just so he could see her,  _talk_  to her,  
grab her and flee their reality once more.

She glanced up and cut him a look.  
His eyebrows went up, perhaps impressed with himself,  
"I'm very clever, you know."

Riza refused to engage.

They had already made so many wrong moves in the past twelve hours.  
She shouldn't have even have come out of Winry's room.

She had come here to shut him down  
what a stupid pipe dream.

Riza was weak.

He was too clever,  
all too clever.

She knew this. Yet, she fell for it anyway in more ways than one.  
Riza lifted her chin, "Your purple tie is now presentable, General"

She declared this tugging the ends and resolutely denying her instinct to scan the whole of his appearance.  
He was wearing a tux. She was wise enough to know she would not survive a full evaluation.

No, she needed to get back to Winry.

Roy stared at the purple finished product then watched Riza's nude heels  
take a measured stepped away from him. He huffed at the purple satin.

He was a decorated General, for god sakes.  
"There's going to be pictures, Hawkeye"

She scoffed an adorable half laugh, and then pat his chest fondly,  
accidentally, irresistibly, " _Suck it up, Sir_."

The Captain looked up to her General who seemed to be only just staring  
at the pink on her lips, then the brown lining of her eyes,  
then the pearls, then the dress.

His tie was purple.  
But, she was in _lilac_.

"It's much more pleasant on you," he said finally,  
filling the silence while she lifted an eyebrow, "The color, I mean."

Riza swallowed, nodded, and smiled softly, unsettled,  _off-kilter._  
For the first time in a long time, he watched his Captain stumble.

She was quite used to the complements, the light and subtle, harmless and charming flirting.  
These were simply occupational hazards as a woman working closely with General Roy Mustang.  
He was smooth and cool, skilled with his silver tongue, a most important tool as he continued to climb,

And, Riza knew for a fact:

Roy couldn't help it.

He dished out the same for nearly every female officer,  
the secretaries, the state librarian, his silly little, flitty, little dates  
all in the name of climbing higher.

However,

Roy Mustang had nothing to gain here, flirting with Riza Hawkeye,  
not practically, politically or otherwise. Yet, he did it anyway.  
He couldn't help it, Riza told herself.

Still, she consistently choked over the fact that his  _eyes_  always said something  
quite different. His words, his charm: more deliberate. His smile never fake, instead,  
honest and sure, and painfully intoxicating.

"I have to tend to Winry,"

She said throwing a thumb over her shoulder.  
Riza had to retreat. Riza had to fight.

It wasn't going to be an issue,  
dealing with the aftermath.

"Yes, of course."  
"I will-" She breathed.  
"See you out there," he nodded.

Her fingers flew to the ends of the purple tie and tugged it snug,  
and resolved to continue the fight, the fight to completely  
forget.

Last night, the past reignited.  
His purple tie, charm sincere,  
all too clever.

She would fight.

She would forget,  
or she would  _try._

"Yes, Sir."

Riza turned on her heel and disappeared.  
Roy cleared his throat and checked the mirror.

Edward, of course, then swung the front door open having witnessed the whole later  
half of the conversation through the outside windows. The return from his trip to catch some fresh air timed so perfectly.

"That was-," Ed scrunched his nose, dropped his jaw. He would say perverted, gross,  
or  _weird_  at the very least. Al appeared behind him and chose a polite,

"Strange."

Not only were they in full dress at like eight in the morning but they both looked  _like that_ ,  
like they could no longer function in front of each other. Hawkeye was jittery and pink, sweating,  
Mustang had gone frighteningly pale, suffocating.

This pair, most notably uptight and frigid, was all of the sudden terribly unraveled right in front of the brothers' very eyes.  
_Strange_  was an understatement. Edward thought he was losing it, needing air so early on his wedding day.

That bastard General must have done something awful,  
caused something wicked to throw off Hawkeye like that.

_And, why were they already dressed?_

_He was not lazy.  
He was just sleeping.  
It's the two of them who are weird._

Ed got distracted, most characteristically, so at the time, only Alphonse recognized  
the defeat on Roy's face, running from reality, restlessly figuring some scheme to see her again,  
_be_  with her longer.

"Are you okay, Mr. Mustang?"

In that moment, Roy jolted and realized he was staring up the stairs He looked to Al and Ed and  
was forced to leave her all over again. And, he  _would_ have screamed and scolded the groom for  
his complete and utter lack of respect for his former commanding officers and their due privacy.  
Riza, however, had warned him.

No complaining, no bickering.

Even luckier so, Roy found no words to scold or scream,  
Not  _small fry_  or  _pipsqueak_  or even just a stern  _get out._

For, quite honestly, they had hit the nail on the head.

He would realize quite quickly that today was  _strange,_  
and it would continue to be

as Riza continued to fight  
and he continued to flee.

Roy turned to the brothers and quipped a cool,  
"Finished your panicking, Fullmetal?"

He was given an earful as he led them back to Edward's room. Riza ducked back into Winry's suite  
and expertly continued to dodge any queries until the bridesmaids showed up and the whirlwind of  
Winry's wedding day finally picked her up and flew her away from her curiosities.

The Captain and her General then proceeded to avoid any interaction, whatsoever, for the rest of the day.  
Not before the aisle, nor on the aisle, and especially not during the vows.

Riza stood stone still and supportively so next to Winry,  
actively avoiding, forgetting, and fighting.

Roy stared upwards, counting the puffs on every cloud in the sky,  
plagued with hypotheticals, probabilities, possibilities.

Together, subconsciously or consciously so, they happened to miss everything  
said at the alter. They most conveniently got lost in their thoughts while the young couple confessed  
and professed saccharine songs of the happier, the joyful, the perfect pieces of life.

Together, they ignored this ultimate goal of the healed and whole,  
for such pieces were never meant for Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye,  
the General and the Captain.

She fought the inevitable.  
He fled the absolutes.

But, this they both knew.  
Such worlds were not for them.

Still, they clapped and they smiled at all the right times in all the right places then proceeded to cruise  
through the evening as mindlessly as the cruel universe might allow them to.

Roy switched seats with Breda at the reception.  
Riza spent an uncharacteristically large amount of time  
waltzing on the dance floor with what seemed like every single male guest.

He drank his fair share of whisky.  
She did the same with the champagne.

Riza gathered dishes and helped with evening coffee.  
Roy took an early car to the hotel.

Roy fled the scene and resigned to leave Riza in her lilac, sneaking a second piece of cake and taking  
her sweet time to call the car back. She waited. She lingered. She made herself busy and told herself it was easy.

They just needed to get through the next twenty-four hours,  
the next forty eight hours tops. They just needed to go to bed,  
push through it and chalk it all up to the hormones,

mindless, aimless, run of the mill hormones  
scot free of anything deeper than their surface value.

But, obviously so, they had lied to themselves  
so foolishly saying it was simple, easy.

It wasn't going to be an issue,  
managing the aftermath.

They had lied to themselves,  
overwhelmingly so.

They had lied to themselves,  
and now she needed her toothbrush.

Given, last night, forgetting her pajamas truly wasn't the smoothest move.  
This time, however, it was technically not her fault but rather simply unlucky.

Simply unlucky,  
yet gravely unfortunate  
all at the same time.

But, the fact remained

She needed her toothbrush from inside her luggage,  
housed in Room Four,  _Roy's_  room for the evening.

Unlucky, indeed.

Riza popped her toes against the carpet, cracked her neck, bought time enough to sum up the courage,  
the might to step into a room alone with him once more, free of uniform. This wasn't going to be an issue.

It was a second chance,  
a rematch.

Roy had certainly won last time with his charm and his _look,_  
Now, this round, she would be the winner.

She just needed to brush her teeth,  
just to brush her teeth.

She would face him again.  
Grab her toothbrush.  
Get out.

This wouldn't be an issue.

Yet, it was quite unsurprising Riza proceeded to forget this pre-knock pep talk, her carefully mapped out game plan.  
She forgot it all when he opened the door and grinned through a toothbrush of his own, pointedly choosing to bubble out a safe,  
  
" _Captain_ "

She huffed.

" _General._ "

He held the door open for her, invited her in,  
retreated to the bathroom and spit into the sink.

Riza slipped past him, rested against the wall  
and completely lost her words, lost her strength.

Riza faltered.

She did not budge, did not make conversation.  
She just stood there, hair down, simple black pajama set,  
eyes no longer lined in brown, lips no longer pink.

She wore no pearls,  
dawned lilac not.

She just stood there in Room Four,  
defenseless, fidgeting,

faltering.

"You look lovely, Captain. as always,"  
Roy said lightly, filling the space.

Riza swallowed, nodded politely

Silence shoved itself between them,  
its presence rude, awkward, and uncomfortable.

She knocked on his door under the pretense of retrieving her toiletries.

It was a perfectly sound reason to visit him.  
It was necessary, mandatory even.

Yet, Riza still did not reach for her comb or ask for her toothbrush.  
Instead she leaned against the wall, stared at her knees,  
and listened to Roy finally sigh,

"Today was strange."

Roy ran a hand through his hair.  
Riza sighed painfully, nodded.

"Yes. It was."

It was the wedding.  
It must have been.

The tux and the tie  
the lilac and champagne,  
rings and cake and forever.

Shameful.

Now, they were here, stuck in suffocating silence,  
both surely driven just the slightest bit mad.

Riza fighting.  
Roy fleeing.

Today was strange.

"Do your feet ache?" He changed the subject.  
"Yes, Sir," she said, softly, an answer he already knew.

"I haven't seen you wear heels for quite some time."  
She cinched a small smile, "For good reason, Sir."

Roy, in turn, scooped up the pain relievers by the sink,  
tossed them to Riza then stepped aside,  
allowing her a place at the counter.

She downed the pills. He washed his face,  
She brushed her teeth. He packed his things.

It was a peaceful thing, Riza noticed, playing house  
and never quite deciding to do so. It was a fragile peace, however.

Riza and Roy the same were scared to move, to think,  
to do any differently lest they break it, this place, this bubble.

Riza faltered.

She had her toothbrush in hand, her makeup bag, her comb,  
but the door to Room Four remained shut.

The time ticked and Riza inched further and further away from the door,  
digging her toes into the carpet, fighting an invisible force identified only as foe,  
despite its frantic push towards safer territory,  
anywhere but  _here_

alone,  
with him.

Riza faltered.

She was sure to fall, her reason warned her, lingering like this,  
yet Riza was overwhelmed by a resilient ambivalence to the thing.

Riza faltered.  
Riza fled.

"Expecting someone?"

Her lingering found her in front of two twin-sized beds pushed together into a king.  
She said the quip without thinking, a habit of involuntary banter, natural chemistry.

The General chuckled lightly, "I simply prefer more room when I sleep."  
"I see," the Captain hummed skeptically, uncertain of what answer she expected,  
what answer she might have wanted to hear.

Roy waited,  
and then

"You're welcome to stay," he said gently, timidly.  
She scoffed, nearly assuming he was joking.  
"And, take up the space you prefer?"

Roy followed her eyes to the two beds pushed together, simply on a whim.  
He wondered if he had, in fact, hoped she'd show up,

"Perhaps you could be the someone I was expecting."

Roy winced.

 _Of course,_  he would just suggest something like  _that._

Roy chewed on his cheek, supposing she might be scared off,  
definitively deciding to dash out the door and leave him once more.

But, he could admit, that a piece of him was  _desperate_  to keep her here, exist with her this way  
until the  _very_  last moment, the very last whistle before their train for Central left the station.

"How imprudent," Riza warned weakly, though, notably so, still did not move from her place,  
envisioning the empty space as Roy slept. The General shrugged, zipped up their luggage  
and muttered, so defeated,

"We can't make our condition much worse, now can we, Captain?"

It was the difference between them now.  
The flee and the fight.

Riza had fought.

Riza had struggled, refusing to be conquered by  
the frailty of the frivolous human heart.

She was above it, or she fiercely  _longed_  to be. She had too much to do to be so swayed  
by sentiments superfluous to efficient functionality. She wouldn't allow it to rule her, end her,  
have any word in her future whatsoever.

She fought for all of this, a complex collective of rationale  
mixed messily with her own pride, a deep  _fear_ ,  
and a lot of petty denial.

Oh, but  _Roy._

For Roy, this situation was  
so crushingly simple.

Roy ran from reality,  
and ran fast while he could.

He sprinted, for he was already so hopelessly gone.

From the very second he kissed her the night before,  
watching her smile so much closer than he had ever had the pleasure,  
Roy surrendered to the very fact that every day, he knew,  
would be just like today.

 _Strange_ , they both agreed.

He wasn't a fool, mind you.  
In reality, he did not pretend.

He did not hope for impractically repealed legislation.  
He did not tenaciously plot to wager his favor with the Fuhrer  
so he might, so very greedily, have his cake and eat it too.

Nothing was going to change.

He would always be her General.  
She would always be his Captain.

It was just that straightforward.  
The reality was resolute  
and so relentlessly  
static.

He would forever only  _itch_  for her presence,  
to simply  _be_  with her like this.

Roy Mustang would, for the rest of his life, ardently hope  
Riza Hawkeye would show up at his door, asking for her toothbrush.

Today,  
for at least today,  
Roy ran away from that reality, the absolutes: the restrictions that held them in a state  
of stasis in exchange for a chance at changing the country. He ran and entertained  
the daydreams of the hopeful, weighed the probabilities,  
the possibilities.

Anything he could do  
to _keep_  her.

Keep  _this._

Roy ran now because he could.  
Roy ran because he must.

Roy ran because he was  _angry,_

He was furious because he was so aware of the fact  
that there was already an answer to all his wishful propositions,  
his conjectures, his hypotheses.

That answer was  _no_.

He wanted to keep her.  
He  _couldn't_ keep her.

He was cruel enough to reacquaint her with the fragment of herself that  _wished_ for such blissful,  
impractical things but he was too damn helpless to do anything but abandon her here at the little Owl Inn.

And, of course, he had the  _audacity_  to believe he even  _deserved_  to keep her, deserved  
to think about anything other than righting his wrongs.  
or even deserved to be angry about any of it.

He was caught,  
useless,  
and guilty.

He had failed his Captain in a whole new way.

So, he kept running.

He made a space on the bed and asked her to stay  
while Riza held her post steadfast and strived to fight ever still.

Roy fled.  
Riza fought.

Riza was losing.

She very well knew she was fading, her will dissolving  
more and more rapidly by the moment.

It started that morning, when he looked at her in way she could never quite put into words in her head,  
only imagine. Over and over and over. Her breath caught when his eyes widened just so,  
_surprise_  was an easy word to pin to it and be done.

Yet, it was the details that made Riza's stomach sink. Roy's eyes were dark and rich and  _deep_ ,  
and within them, when he looked at her  _like that_ , there was so much more than Riza felt she could handle,  
so much more than she felt she deserved.

 _Pride_ , maybe.  _Compassion_ , she struggled.  
_Delight,_  perhaps.  _Attachment,_  Riza thought,  
nearing very dangerous territory, indeed.

She never felt she found the right word.

Even still, that _look_  had unraveled her slowly with each time  
she caught herself playing it over in her head  
again and again and again.

Riza forced herself to forget.  
But, her will was weakening.

Riza fought.  
Riza was losing.

Now,  
here in Room Four,

Each moment she spent so very close to him,  _remembering_ , she deteriorated ten times  
as quickly as she was before. Ever since the night before, ever since this early morning,  
ever since he turned from his tie in the mirror, set his eyes on her and looked at her

_like that_

Ever since, she had been  
waning, diminishing.

Riza worried over her lip, staring at the beds, studying the space made for her, the  _expected someone_.  
She wondered if this was all predetermined, whether she would spend the night here or not.

She wondered if she had any choice at all.

No.

No. She would not accept the powerlessness of fate.  
She would fight. So, she did.

Riza drew her pistol,  
one last time.

She finally opened her mouth to win,  
to most sensibly, most responsibly tell him  _no_ ,

then the door behind her closed and Roy had disappeared  
to fetch a glass of complimentary ice water courtesy of the little Owl Inn.

Leaving her alone,  
was a mistake, to be sure.

The room smelled like him, she noted.

She had lost her train of thought; her boundless will to be the victor,  
to fight, to forget the night before as he studied her skin  
and kissed her without restraint.

She would rather remember such things,  
she thought fleetingly, truthfully.

She didn't want to forget.

Riza surrendered.

She put her gun down,  
relaxed her grip.

Riza felt deafened by her heartbeat in her ears and could not recall deciding to step to the beds  
and turn down the sheets, but once she was there, the bed seemed so much more inviting,  
the rest so enticing; the room so wonderfully warm, a perfect peaceful place  
with him.

It certainly was a hard thought to pass up.

He caught her exchanging the overhead for a sleepy lamp and, at least,  
attempted to hide his soft smirk of victory by taking too many sips from his glass.

"Don't rub it in," Riza muttered softly, padding over to the bathroom, flicking off the light.  
"I would never," Roy said, grin so painfully obvious, so painfully charming.

It was a consensus.  
Roy and Riza.  
Just one more night.

Riza huffed and resigned to avoiding eye contact,  
simply hiding under the covers,  
maintaining some control, some dignity.

She could sleep here,  
she thought, but only-

Roy then, of course, caught Riza's arm before she went for the sheets,  
tugging at her wrist in the lightest of ways.

She very much let herself be pulled so close,  
and for the first time since the night before,  
Riza breathed in  
and Roy breathed out.

He leaned down, nudged her nose, brought her lips up to his,  
and he then kissed her feather light and dangerously so.

For, there was neither lust nor hunger  
but something so much sweeter in its place,  
much more destructive. Still, she kissed him back, a hand on his chest.

Riza relented, gave up the fight,  
and, with Roy, was swept away for the night.

Such a peaceful,  
perfect place.

He tasted like toothpaste.  
She smelled like shampoo.

"Goodnight," he said ghosting her cheek with his hand.  
"Goodnight," she breathed, and then smiled so soft.

Roy gave a lopsided grin, sweet and kind. He kissed her hairline,  
and they parted to slip silently under the covers.

They exchanged favorable pillows wordlessly.  
He preferred firm. She preferred soft.

He gave her the extra blanket, knowing  
she loved being toasty, he liked being cool.

Roy settled on his side. Riza settled on her back,  
reaching up once to switch off the lamp,

and they played pretend,  
they played make believe,

there in Room Four.

_Today was strange.  
Yes, it was._

Riza faded fast.

She had not a hint as to how tired she was until she had surrendered,  
until the cease-fire came through. It was exhausting,  
resisting  _this,_  
resisting him.

She had only made it harder on herself, she knew.  
Her mistakes here would haunt her for months  
– for years, she feared, but would not dare humor the thought.

But, he had kissed her goodnight and like some silly princess  
of all those foolish fairytales, she fell into a deep sleep.

Riza huffed a little laugh under her blankets knowing kisses of such sort were supposed  
to  _wake_  rather than soothe into slumber. She figured the discrepancy was only appropriate  
in such an indecent circumstance.

Yet, Riza couldn't find it in herself to care as she drifted.  
She had stopped fighting. Just for now, she breathed,

Just for now.

Beside her, Roy shifted.

He lay so close to her, counted his sheep, and waited,  
but peace came to Riza and chose deliberately to abandon Roy.

Well into the night, try all he might,  
the running still wouldn't stop.

It was a plague now, the hypotheticals, the probabilities, the possibilities.  
His head ached with them tenfold since this morning when  
she floated down stairs.

Riza in  _lilac_.

She gave that smile and pat his chest,  
irresistibly scoffed, " _Suck it up, Sir."_

Roy's breath caught in his throat. He shook his head.  
He dug his feet into the ground to curb the racing, the fleeing.  
She was right there beside him,  
but he wanted  _more._

He wanted  _tomorrow_. He wanted  _next year._  He wanted-  
Even still, there was a sharp fail safe in his head.

It had caught him three times last night, and, finally, here once more.  
This was where the running must stop, it told him.

He had been compromised all day, so very hopelessly gone.  
He needed an anchor back on reality,  
a complementary bucket of ice water.

Roy ran his hand down his face, huffed and knew the real antidote.  
He softly turned, flipped on a ready light, and cracked his book.

He massaged his temples and rubbed his eyes,  
reluctantly caved into using his reading glasses,  
all for his Ishvalan text of maps, sacred lands,  
cultural and anthropological history.

He had to know it all.

They would be leaving for the desert soon.  
and  _that_  was the reality.

Not  _this._

Roy glanced at Riza curled at his side, forehead finally unwrinkled,  
finally relaxed, and so soundly and peacefully asleep.

Riza had stopped fighting for now, for  _this_.  
Maybe by chance they could-

Stop running.

Roy forced down the float of his heart, and grimaced through the halt,  
shoulders buckling, head falling into his hands. Roy stopped, and struggled,  
and scolded the piece of him that would always keep sprinting toward the hills,

toward her.

"It's not your fault, you know."

The words called from the back of his mind in Edward Elric's voice, of all people.  
Near the end of his reception, Fullmetal had taken it upon himself to plop down next to Roy,  
who sat alone like a grumpy old man, picking at his dessert

He  _just_  wanted a moment of peace.

The space was far too loud. Both Breda and Havoc had ingested much too much alcohol.  
They sang karaoke wholly unprompted and unappreciated by anyone relatively sober left in the room.  
Still, far too many had indulged them, namely Falman and Armstrong, inanely  _encouraging_  it to continue.

Fuery, with Sheska, was nearly as obnoxiously in love as the newlyweds, obliviously chatting his ear off  
about the joys of the perfectly legal military relationship between two peers of equal rank.

It was maddening.

And, then there was Riza.

Riza's silent treatments, when she dared to utilize the strategy, were deafening.  
She was scared, Roy knew. The look in her eyes this morning, when he told her of  _lilac_ ,  
when he flirted with her without shame.

That look was  _fear_.

But, her absence from his side was so cruelly missed.  
He was stuck in this hell where she was the  _only_  person  
he wanted to talk to and the  _only_  person unwilling to be in his presence.

So, he left to be alone,  
or hoped to be,  
so he could sit, eat cake,  
and try his very best to think about nothing.

What a stupid pipe dream.

_It's not your fault, you know._

"Excuse me?"

Roy had raised an eyebrow, first of all, baffled as to why on earth  
Ed wasn't still prancing around, arm and arm, showing off his wife,  
his dazzling, beautiful dream girl.

Instead, he was choosing to talk to _him_ ,  
arguably one of his least favorite people on the planet.

"I'm sick of dealing with relatives," he had claimed.  
"You have like  _one_  blood relative," Roy countered.  
"Everyone else then, " Ed grumbled.

Perhaps they were both grumpy old men.

Edward didn't have to be here.  
He didn't necessarily  _want_  to be here.

So, Ed had the right mind to be timely about his work  
before he stormed off from the sheer annoyance of this  
bastard's attitude. He cut to the quick.

"Hawkeye."

Roy involuntarily glanced at her.

She was busy waltzing around with Alphonse to some popular tune complimented by  
a wholly butchered vocal performance courtesy of the men one table over.  
She smiled sweetly, laughed lightly, and  _appeared_  to have some sort of peace of mind,  
thinking of anything and everything  
but the General.

She was all he could think about.

"Hawkeye?" Roy looked away, deadpanned,  
and stuffed his mouth with sponge cake.

"I mean, you keep staring at her."  
"Do not," he muffled, mouth full.

It certainly was not the wisest choice of tone  
completely defensive, completely childish.  
Ed wasn't above it.

"Do too," Edward bit back,  
threw a hand in her direction, "I mean, it's –"

Roy swallowed and went in for another  
monstrously big piece of distraction cake.

"It's-" Ed struggled, understandably so.

The Flame and Fullmetal Alchemists had an established relationship,  
of mocking and teasing and insults. He liked it that way.  _This_  wasn't his style.  
So, obviously, it was not Edward's first nature to not only put up with Roy Mustang,  
but also make a proactive effort to meddle in his wretched personal problems.

But, it was the wedding.

It was Winry in a white dress making his world stop,  
seeing such a significant sight; well- you make a  _face_ or whatever.

and Ed had the great misfortune of watching Mustang make that exact face this morning,  
while he suffocated in front of, not just Hawkeye, but Hawkeye in  _lilac,_  standing oh so close,  
fixing his ridiculously purple bowtie.

Most peculiarly, she was in just as bad of shape.  
The Captain fumbled with the fabric and swallowed down tension.

It was strange.  
It was gross.

He and Al did their fair share of gossip while under Mustang's command,  
avoiding topics that stung, questions without answers that plagued their mind  
They were searching for moments of commonplace peace.  
So, they landed on Mustang and Hawkeye.

Just one day out of the blue.

Al was convinced they would end up together.  
Ed was convinced the asshole didn't deserve her.

Then they forgot about it.

And, now the whole wedding thing,  
and Winry, and the  _face._

Edward figured, tomorrow, he could just claim he was drunk,  
and they could forget he ever did him the favor.

He really didn't know what he was doing here.  
But, he did know one thing.

If Mustang looked like that with Hawkeye in  _lilac_ , he could make an educated guess that Roy would,  
from now on, dream of her only in  _white_. He knew the feeling. So, he committed, turned in his seat,  
leaned on his knees and faced him straight on.

"Look, I don't know you…" Ed hesitated, " _intimately._ "  
Mustang's eyes winded, face twisted, slightly disturbed.

Ed rolled his eyes. He just couldn't think of a better word.  
_God, the damn, smug-ass, prideful-_. Ed gritted his teeth and pressed on.

"You've made a lot of mistakes in your life."  
He said straight, counting on his fingers,

"Everything having to do with that war. Not to mention,  
you're a selfish bastard on a daily bases, and all of that is your fault."

"Thanks," Roy said dryly and sucked his fork clean of frosting.

"No, but this isn't. The fact that you're in-"

Roy tensed, frozen on his fork,  
and Ed stopped short, thinking better than  
going as far to saying it out loud. Instead he huffed,

" _That_  is just not your fault,"

Ed let his shoulder fall, relax and believe what he said,  
so perhaps the General might too,

" _She_  is not your fault, Mustang."

Roy scraped the rest of the icing off the plate, blaming reflexes, blaming muscle memory  
for denying everything, and shutting down Edward's most uncharacteristic act of kindness.

He had looked back at him, blinked away last night,  
raised an eyebrow and responded dumbly,

"I'm afraid I don't follow, Fullmetal"

Edward scoffed and shot to his feet. That was the last straw.  
Conversation over. He muttered, "Moron" and ended it.

"Once again, thanks," Roy lifted his fork in regards  
and muttered right back, glancing at Riza,  
now spinning with a relatively drunk Havoc.

He told her jokes, made her laugh.  
Roy scrunched his nose and had to look away.

Edward's comment, Roy absolutely  
would never admit, did sooth his mind.

_Today was strange._

Perhaps it wasn't his fault.  
Perhaps Fullmetal was right.

Such matters never did discriminate  
between sinners and saints.

Their past or future was irrelevant.  
There wasn't anything to be done,  
and Riza was in _lilac._

_It's not your fault._

It was the wedding, he knew, silly little events  
that seemed to make fools of everyone,  
wishful,  
delusional,  
full of doubt.

So, if that day, that matter did not fall on his shoulders,  
he flipped the pages of his book, and saw between every line,  
exactly where he was responsible.

Roy's shoulders hunched, he slid down the headboard,  
rubbed his eyes, turned the page once more.

At the flip, Riza sleepily winked one eye open,  
looked up and watched him sigh.

She sat up, inched his glasses off his nose,  
closed his book and pulled.

He tugged back, but she simply said,  
"Sleep," and Roy surrendered.

In a moment, he exchanged the light for dark, and collapsed onto his pillow.  
He tugged the covers over his shoulders and watched Riza turn her head away  
and drift gently back into slumber, breathing deeply and sighing softly.

Roy fled.

His hand found hers, resting lazily on the pillow next to her ear, arm bent at the elbow.  
He cradled it at the wrist and brushed his thumb against her palm, greedily memorizing the feel of her skin.

Roy half expected her to pull away,  
stop the running, stop the sprinting.

But, she just hummed in her sleep.

Warmth spread thickly through Roy's chest while he bit his cheek and grimaced through  
another dig of his heels in the sand, an effort to cut the fleeing short, stay firmly planted in reality.

Oh, but he was so far gone.

He had thought about it, he did,

while he pondered the hypotheticals,  
the probabilities, the possibilities.

He thought about saying the three words,  
and what exactly might be the impact.

_It's not your fault._

He wondered if that were true,  
could he void any of the consequences,  
the backlash, the pain of the candor?

_It's not your fault._

It was funny how he heard, after awhile,  
the words of Edward Elric in the voice of Maes Hughes.

It was quite the Hughes thing to say, Roy thought.

Maybe it was the whole marriage thing.  
Perhaps clarity came with the ceremony, the silly little party,  
the rings, the cake and the forever.

So, the decision was whether or not to trust his friend  
in the one subject of which Hughes was an aficionado.

Perhaps it was true.

Perhaps they were always meant to end up here this way,  
together however and whenever they could be.

Perhaps it was that simple.

It simply could not be helped who he fell for.  
It simply could not be helped who he'd die for.

But, Roy and Riza.

Nothing about them was simple.  
Nothing about them was whole or healed,  
like the Elrics', like the Hughes'.

This was not the relationship of one boy and one girl,  
and not even the scandal of one superior and one subordinate.

It was a secret keeper and her betrayer,  
a monster and his maker.

It was not trust to protect,  
it was trust to kill on sight.

Everything about them was twisted and mangled, complex and in flames.  
Two murders  _daring_  to claim, after taking so many innocent lives, that they deserved  
to live one of their own and strive for some incomplete form of redemption.

They didn't stand a chance at being simple.

The most gracious universal truths of humanity,  
for them, those rules no longer applied,  
simple pleasures did not come to them granted.

Yet, still, he had brought her here,  
to Resembool, to Room Four,  _to his bed,_

the most intimate of places, even in the most innocent of circumstances,  
effectively bringing her down with his greatest weakness,

Riza Hawkeye herself.

It was continually used against him, this weakness.  
Because of him, her throat was sliced, she bled out onto the floor,  
and begged him not to save her.

Of course, one would think such a trauma would be enough to call it quits, force himself to forget,  
force himself to maintain a distance of ambivalence and adopt some other Achilles Heel for his enemies  
to hunt and seize and kill in front of him.

But, he didn't.  
He  _couldn't._

He kissed her and held her and asked her to stay, threatening to make vain everything she had ever sacrificed for him,  
every step she ever took for him, his goal that she so vigorously worked for. It could all vanish,  
and all he had to say for himself was

_It's not my fault._

What a joke.

Riza's hand moved sleepily under his to weave her fingers through his own. And, with that precious gesture  
of affection from such a tentative, guarded source, anger sunk its claws in Roy's gut and pulled sharp, ruthlessly.

He wanted  _more._

_It's not your fault._

No, he decided.

It had always been his fault.

"I should have stayed," he muttered numbly, pulling his hand away from hers, feeling  
a red hot sear in his chest in consequence of desperately  _longing_  to keep Riza Hawkeye  
and having the  _audacity_  to be furious about all the reasons why he couldn't:

mistakes

mistakes from the very beginning,

since he left a Riza burned with ink behind with the grave of her father,  
turning his back on her to become the beginnings of the monster  
known as The Flame Alchemist.

 _It's not your fault, Roy_.

No, Hughes.  
It had always been his fault.

"I should have stayed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your wonderful thoughts last chapter. I treasure them in my little heart.  
> Next chapter soon <3

**Author's Note:**

> Keep an eye on this for the next two weeks. Should have like four or five chapters. Leave me your thoughts, loves


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